TRAVELIN FOLK
GOIN BROKE
anything helps
She had natty locks and big black rimmed glasses and two dogs. The dogs slept beneath the shade of a city tree while she paced in the sun.
VIETNAM VET
true patriot
He stood in place on the boulevard median, teetering. His eyes opened and shut and his lips moved but he didn't speak. His stubble only looked a few days old, suggestive of a recent shave.
GOD LOVES
US ALL
His hair and beard were bushy and he looked angry, but harmless. The hairs in his beard were black and white and grey. When he begged enough to buy fried rice at China Star, he'd go get it and eat on his way back down 4th Street and throw the empty container on the sidewalk in front of someone's house.
Showing posts with label Northern Liberties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Northern Liberties. Show all posts
The Biggest Small Town in America
He heard that people who move to Philly either love it or hate it, no in-betweens. Nearly two years have passed since his arrival and, decidedly, he counts as one of the lovers. After a period of shyness, he met Rose the same way he met most of the people he knows in the city – by being himself and having the balls to do what he felt was the right thing at the time. In the case of meeting Rose, having balls and doing what felt right just meant pushing his way through a crowd of people to get her a drink at a party where he'd caught a look in her eye of hopeless frustration.
When his dinner guests begin to arrive, he's preparing a salad. He expects nine people, five of whom he knows. The other four are Rose's friends Suki and Annabeth plus their boyfriends, and this little group arrives last, knocking on his rented row home door just as he removes a roast from the oven. Suki and Annabeth hug Rose and wish her a happy birthday while the others all introduce themselves. He places the roast on top of the stove and joins them in his living / dining room, where he immediately recognizes Suki and Annabeth's boyfriends. A sudden feeling of having come full circle in Philadelphia overtakes him.
"Linc, hey," says Rose, "come meet Suki and Anna and their boyfriends, Garret and Joe."
"Hey, I'm Garret, thanks for having us." A hand extends and he shakes it.
"Yeah, thank you. I'm Joe." Another handshake.
"Nice to meet you guys, I'm Lincoln, everyone calls me Linc. Welcome. I hope you eat meat?"
Both men nod.
"Well alright. You guys look familiar, by the way." He considers mentioning the day when he spoke with them briefly at 700, but decides against it.
Garret and Joseph shrug, and Garret says, "We're around."
They eat dinner and talk about their lives and the city and how the ones who know each other know each other, and he's so happy he can hardly contain himself. The beers go down too easily and he worries that he talks too much and that he overcompensates for talking too much by seeming too interested in everyone else. Did he come off like a zealot for land bank legislation? Did he ask Suki too many questions about the pet rabbit her friend lets roam freely around her finished basement?
Everyone seems to have enjoyed the meal, or at least they tell him so when they leave. It never feels right for him to ask men for their phone numbers, so he doesn't ask Garret and Joseph for theirs, but he thinks next time he sees them around the neighborhood, they'll remember tonight's dinner.
When his dinner guests begin to arrive, he's preparing a salad. He expects nine people, five of whom he knows. The other four are Rose's friends Suki and Annabeth plus their boyfriends, and this little group arrives last, knocking on his rented row home door just as he removes a roast from the oven. Suki and Annabeth hug Rose and wish her a happy birthday while the others all introduce themselves. He places the roast on top of the stove and joins them in his living / dining room, where he immediately recognizes Suki and Annabeth's boyfriends. A sudden feeling of having come full circle in Philadelphia overtakes him.
"Linc, hey," says Rose, "come meet Suki and Anna and their boyfriends, Garret and Joe."
"Hey, I'm Garret, thanks for having us." A hand extends and he shakes it.
"Yeah, thank you. I'm Joe." Another handshake.
"Nice to meet you guys, I'm Lincoln, everyone calls me Linc. Welcome. I hope you eat meat?"
Both men nod.
"Well alright. You guys look familiar, by the way." He considers mentioning the day when he spoke with them briefly at 700, but decides against it.
Garret and Joseph shrug, and Garret says, "We're around."
They eat dinner and talk about their lives and the city and how the ones who know each other know each other, and he's so happy he can hardly contain himself. The beers go down too easily and he worries that he talks too much and that he overcompensates for talking too much by seeming too interested in everyone else. Did he come off like a zealot for land bank legislation? Did he ask Suki too many questions about the pet rabbit her friend lets roam freely around her finished basement?
Everyone seems to have enjoyed the meal, or at least they tell him so when they leave. It never feels right for him to ask men for their phone numbers, so he doesn't ask Garret and Joseph for theirs, but he thinks next time he sees them around the neighborhood, they'll remember tonight's dinner.
Introductions
He sits and the clock ticks. He wants them to see him. He sees them all the time: at Higher Grounds, at Liberty Lands, at the Piazza. Here they are at 700 and he doesn't want much, just small talk.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
One Night In 2003
Sipping an Extra Pale Ale, hand pumped and served room temperature, Brian waited for Alexa. The last time he saw her she was an eighteen year old senior and he was a sixteen year old sophomore doing his best to conceal what he assumed to be an unrequited crush. When she strode through The Abbaye’s doorway and their eyes met for the first time in seven years, his jaw unwittingly dropped.
“Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger!”
“Thank you. And hello!” Be cool, he thought. “It’s been ages.”
“Really, it has.”
They flashed their individual headlines: a brief summary of college life from each of them, her job working with troubled teenagers, his much-less-interesting job in accounting, and, finally, how she managed to buy a home in Northern Liberties.
“So, you been to any other bars yet?”
“No.”
“Well, this place just opened and I love it, then there’s North Third and Standard Tap and Azure who also have great food and beer lists.” She spoke of local homeowners in the collective. “If any of us need a contractor, we can always just go down to happy hour at Seven Hundred. Electricians, plumbers, general handymen, they’re always there when they get off work.”
“What’s the deal with Finnegan’s Wake?” Brian asked.
“Oh,” she frowned. “Bad news. Crazy-frat-party-land. The neighborhood association fights them all the time, but apparently its owned by a group of city politicians, so they get away with whatever they want. These kids park on all the nearby streets and then break bottles when they leave the place, scream and shout, it really sucks. I catch them pissing on the side wall of my house all the time, in the alleyway.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the vibe here.”
She nodded. “You said it.”
They agreed to meet for drinks again later that evening, and though Brian didn’t sense that she was any more attracted to him now than she was in high school, the slightest glimmer of hope was enough.
That night, they went to her favorite bars and he paid for the drinks. Their conversation had that effortlessness so often felt among young, increasingly buzzed people with many friends and experiences in common.
She asked him to walk her home and though he couldn’t be sure whether it was strictly for safety or, optimistically, for a night cap at her place, the glimmer of hope was alive and well.
As they approached her house, she began, “Would you like,” but was interrupted by the sound of a bottle breaking against brick, and then loud, drunken laughter. She turned toward the alleyway and then back at him and for the first time all night he was indecisive. Testosterone told him to walk into the alley and confront the perpetrators, but what he really wanted was for them both to pretend they hadn’t heard the loud noise and for her to finish her sentence. When she fell silent and just stood there, looking down at her red ballet flats, he felt compelled to act.
“Why don’t you go inside?” He said. “I’m just gonna see what that’s all about.”
“It’s okay,” she said. For a moment he thought she’d suggest that they go inside together and forget the newly broken bottle, but then she continued. “I’ll come with you.”
She stood back as he confronted two visibly drunk guys, one of whom was relieving himself on the side wall of her house. As the first punch landed on Brian’s left cheekbone and he fired back, nose cartilage crushing beneath his fist, he knew that his chance with Alexa had come and gone.
“Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger!”
“Thank you. And hello!” Be cool, he thought. “It’s been ages.”
“Really, it has.”
They flashed their individual headlines: a brief summary of college life from each of them, her job working with troubled teenagers, his much-less-interesting job in accounting, and, finally, how she managed to buy a home in Northern Liberties.
“So, you been to any other bars yet?”
“No.”
“Well, this place just opened and I love it, then there’s North Third and Standard Tap and Azure who also have great food and beer lists.” She spoke of local homeowners in the collective. “If any of us need a contractor, we can always just go down to happy hour at Seven Hundred. Electricians, plumbers, general handymen, they’re always there when they get off work.”
“What’s the deal with Finnegan’s Wake?” Brian asked.
“Oh,” she frowned. “Bad news. Crazy-frat-party-land. The neighborhood association fights them all the time, but apparently its owned by a group of city politicians, so they get away with whatever they want. These kids park on all the nearby streets and then break bottles when they leave the place, scream and shout, it really sucks. I catch them pissing on the side wall of my house all the time, in the alleyway.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the vibe here.”
She nodded. “You said it.”
They agreed to meet for drinks again later that evening, and though Brian didn’t sense that she was any more attracted to him now than she was in high school, the slightest glimmer of hope was enough.
That night, they went to her favorite bars and he paid for the drinks. Their conversation had that effortlessness so often felt among young, increasingly buzzed people with many friends and experiences in common.
She asked him to walk her home and though he couldn’t be sure whether it was strictly for safety or, optimistically, for a night cap at her place, the glimmer of hope was alive and well.
As they approached her house, she began, “Would you like,” but was interrupted by the sound of a bottle breaking against brick, and then loud, drunken laughter. She turned toward the alleyway and then back at him and for the first time all night he was indecisive. Testosterone told him to walk into the alley and confront the perpetrators, but what he really wanted was for them both to pretend they hadn’t heard the loud noise and for her to finish her sentence. When she fell silent and just stood there, looking down at her red ballet flats, he felt compelled to act.
“Why don’t you go inside?” He said. “I’m just gonna see what that’s all about.”
“It’s okay,” she said. For a moment he thought she’d suggest that they go inside together and forget the newly broken bottle, but then she continued. “I’ll come with you.”
She stood back as he confronted two visibly drunk guys, one of whom was relieving himself on the side wall of her house. As the first punch landed on Brian’s left cheekbone and he fired back, nose cartilage crushing beneath his fist, he knew that his chance with Alexa had come and gone.
The Nature of Man
It’s almost always sunny in Philadelphia, but this Saturday afternoon was overcast with a cool, comfortable breeze. Garret and Joseph walked down Poplar Street toward 2nd.
“What’s this place?” Joseph asked. He pointed to a series of outdoor, tent covered tables and a food cart.
“Don’t know, looks like that old late night hot dog stand.”
“Let’s check it out, I’m hungry.”
They discovered La Copine Brunch Cart, ordered breakfast sandwiches and flatbread, and sat along a wooden fence.
“How can you argue with me about this? I have thousands of years of evidence on my side,” Garret insisted, stubborn as usual.
“But there’s one key point you seem to overlook.”
“What point? In all of recorded history you have war. The fall of Babylon, the Greek and Roman Empires, the Crusades, etcetera etcetera. India versus Pakistan, Iran versus Iraq . . . terrorism! The IRA, the ETA, al qaeda . . . the list goes on and on. How can you argue?”
“I don’t have to argue.”
“Of course you don’t, and you shouldn’t because it’s pointless. The nature of man is evil. We’re a bellicose species.”
Near their table, a little girl perhaps two years old ran in circles, laughing aloud, chasing after nothing at all as her parents ate brunch and laughed too.
Joseph nodded in their direction, indicating to Garret that he should notice the little girl if he hadn’t already. “You think she’s got an evil nature, Garret?”
“The kid? No.”
“Right. Not sure how we get into all these wars or become terrorists, but people aren't just born evil. Look at a child and you know. Circumstances affect us and choices are made, but there's nothing absolute about our nature.”
Garret didn’t respond, he just took another bite of his sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich, a silent concession.
“What’s this place?” Joseph asked. He pointed to a series of outdoor, tent covered tables and a food cart.
“Don’t know, looks like that old late night hot dog stand.”
“Let’s check it out, I’m hungry.”
They discovered La Copine Brunch Cart, ordered breakfast sandwiches and flatbread, and sat along a wooden fence.
“How can you argue with me about this? I have thousands of years of evidence on my side,” Garret insisted, stubborn as usual.
“But there’s one key point you seem to overlook.”
“What point? In all of recorded history you have war. The fall of Babylon, the Greek and Roman Empires, the Crusades, etcetera etcetera. India versus Pakistan, Iran versus Iraq . . . terrorism! The IRA, the ETA, al qaeda . . . the list goes on and on. How can you argue?”
“I don’t have to argue.”
“Of course you don’t, and you shouldn’t because it’s pointless. The nature of man is evil. We’re a bellicose species.”
Near their table, a little girl perhaps two years old ran in circles, laughing aloud, chasing after nothing at all as her parents ate brunch and laughed too.
Joseph nodded in their direction, indicating to Garret that he should notice the little girl if he hadn’t already. “You think she’s got an evil nature, Garret?”
“The kid? No.”
“Right. Not sure how we get into all these wars or become terrorists, but people aren't just born evil. Look at a child and you know. Circumstances affect us and choices are made, but there's nothing absolute about our nature.”
Garret didn’t respond, he just took another bite of his sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich, a silent concession.
Chance Arrival
It’s destiny, he thinks. Everything else led to sitting upstairs at the Tap by the window and looking out onto the moonlit façade of the old building across the street.
Sitting at the bar moments earlier, something made him rise and walk to the empty table and chair by the window and now that he’s here, somehow he just knows he’s found his place.
He arrived in Philadelphia yesterday. Riding shotgun from Chicago after half an hour with his thumb in the air, no destination in mind as he waited for a willing driver, the long haired young dude who picked him up popping Mini Thins to make the drive nonstop after partying all night with his buddy’s band, he decided Philly was as good as any other city to start fresh. All he knew of the place were cheesesteaks, a famous cracked bell, and the Rocky movies.
His chauffeur, speaking a mile a minute because of the Mini Thins, told him he’d like Philly and especially his neighborhood, though the best place to stay is one neighborhood south, he said, the hostel in Old City. He didn’t say much because of the kid’s constant yapping, which suited him just fine, and when the fourteen hour drive came to its conclusion, the kid dropping him off on the corner of Bank and Chestnut, he wasn’t sure about an invitation to meet for beers the following night, but here he is.
Now seated and looking out into the calm night with scattered voices and lo-fi music combining to create a steady, energetic hum, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, but he knows he’s here to stay.
Sitting at the bar moments earlier, something made him rise and walk to the empty table and chair by the window and now that he’s here, somehow he just knows he’s found his place.
He arrived in Philadelphia yesterday. Riding shotgun from Chicago after half an hour with his thumb in the air, no destination in mind as he waited for a willing driver, the long haired young dude who picked him up popping Mini Thins to make the drive nonstop after partying all night with his buddy’s band, he decided Philly was as good as any other city to start fresh. All he knew of the place were cheesesteaks, a famous cracked bell, and the Rocky movies.
His chauffeur, speaking a mile a minute because of the Mini Thins, told him he’d like Philly and especially his neighborhood, though the best place to stay is one neighborhood south, he said, the hostel in Old City. He didn’t say much because of the kid’s constant yapping, which suited him just fine, and when the fourteen hour drive came to its conclusion, the kid dropping him off on the corner of Bank and Chestnut, he wasn’t sure about an invitation to meet for beers the following night, but here he is.
Now seated and looking out into the calm night with scattered voices and lo-fi music combining to create a steady, energetic hum, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, but he knows he’s here to stay.
Cornhole at the Keep
“What’s going on out there?” Some dude, standing in the doorway by the pool table, asked in the general direction of Garret and Joseph.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
First Date
Joseph took a tater tot, dipped it in hot sauce, and dropped it into his mouth. He laughed like a schoolboy, still chewing, before lashing out with a loud “La la la la, la, la la la” as Bob Dylan’s "The Man In Me" began.
Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look. “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”
Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice. They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked. The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.
Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz. This is going well, don’t screw it up.
“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song. I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”
Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it. At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?” Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”
“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.
“. . .”
“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR. “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”
Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane. His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .” He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.
The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged. Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.
As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.
(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)
Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look. “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”
Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice. They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked. The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.
Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz. This is going well, don’t screw it up.
“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song. I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”
Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it. At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?” Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”
“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.
“. . .”
“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR. “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”
Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane. His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .” He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.
The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged. Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.
As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.
(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)
City Fire
The fire burns a bright orange, lighting up Garret’s city yard of stone, warming the bodies of his roommates and friends.
Joseph stares into the flames, in his own world, Garret’s laughter far away, though he sits at a distance of about five feet.
“Joe,” Garret says between giggles, “yo, Joe, I got a question for you.”
Joseph looks away from the fire pit, at Garret’s mischievous face. “Whasup?”
“What’s your mom’s phone number?”
“Shut up, Garret.”
Garret’s roommates laugh because Garret does, though they’re not sure why. Garret’s girlfriend, Suki, eyes him suspiciously.
“Alright then,” Garret replies, “What’s my phone number?”
“You’re so funny, dude. Really you are.”
“What’s this about, Garret?” Suki asks.
“He can’t tell you anyone’s phone number because he doesn’t have a cell phone. He keeps people’s numbers written down on a notepad at home.” Now Garret and his roommates roar. Suki just rolls her eyes.
“267, 365, 8192,” Joseph says, “That’s your number. I remember it. What’s mine, asshole?”
Garret gets a hold of himself, nodding his head and twitching a bit as the laughter subsides. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’d have to look in my phone, I don’t know anyone’s numbers anymore. I just look up their names and push the SEND button.”
“That’s right, buddy. You and everyone else. You’re all slaves to your cell phones. I, on the other hand, am free.”
Suki smiles.
“Free, yeah,” Garret retorts, “free to bum someone else’s phone if you need to call a cab,” he starts laughing again, “or order a pizza. . . .” The joke takes new life.
Suki just shakes her head and Joseph stands to go inside for another drink. “Anyone need anything while I’m up?” he offers.
One of the roommates responds, “I’m alright, but if I think of anything, I’ll call you. Oh wait.”
More laughter from the group as Joseph opens the sliding door and enters the kitchen. Inside, he opens the fridge and reaches for a beer and takes a deep breath, noticing the strong smell of burning wood on his clothes, surely in his hair as well.
You don’t realize you smell like smoke until you walk away from the fire, Joseph thinks. He returns to his friends, drinks the beer while it’s still cold, and then walks from Garret’s place in Northern Liberties back to his Fishtown apartment.
Joseph stares into the flames, in his own world, Garret’s laughter far away, though he sits at a distance of about five feet.
“Joe,” Garret says between giggles, “yo, Joe, I got a question for you.”
Joseph looks away from the fire pit, at Garret’s mischievous face. “Whasup?”
“What’s your mom’s phone number?”
“Shut up, Garret.”
Garret’s roommates laugh because Garret does, though they’re not sure why. Garret’s girlfriend, Suki, eyes him suspiciously.
“Alright then,” Garret replies, “What’s my phone number?”
“You’re so funny, dude. Really you are.”
“What’s this about, Garret?” Suki asks.
“He can’t tell you anyone’s phone number because he doesn’t have a cell phone. He keeps people’s numbers written down on a notepad at home.” Now Garret and his roommates roar. Suki just rolls her eyes.
“267, 365, 8192,” Joseph says, “That’s your number. I remember it. What’s mine, asshole?”
Garret gets a hold of himself, nodding his head and twitching a bit as the laughter subsides. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’d have to look in my phone, I don’t know anyone’s numbers anymore. I just look up their names and push the SEND button.”
“That’s right, buddy. You and everyone else. You’re all slaves to your cell phones. I, on the other hand, am free.”
Suki smiles.
“Free, yeah,” Garret retorts, “free to bum someone else’s phone if you need to call a cab,” he starts laughing again, “or order a pizza. . . .” The joke takes new life.
Suki just shakes her head and Joseph stands to go inside for another drink. “Anyone need anything while I’m up?” he offers.
One of the roommates responds, “I’m alright, but if I think of anything, I’ll call you. Oh wait.”
More laughter from the group as Joseph opens the sliding door and enters the kitchen. Inside, he opens the fridge and reaches for a beer and takes a deep breath, noticing the strong smell of burning wood on his clothes, surely in his hair as well.
You don’t realize you smell like smoke until you walk away from the fire, Joseph thinks. He returns to his friends, drinks the beer while it’s still cold, and then walks from Garret’s place in Northern Liberties back to his Fishtown apartment.
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